Not Sam
by Whilom
Summary: Dean got off the rack and picked up the scalpel and was thankful.


_Written for Prompt: Fire from LJ community spn_30snapshots._

**Not Sam **by Whilom

All he knew was that the heat in Hell was enough to make Death Valley resemble frozen tundra.

He was the only one in the dark and wasn't dark supposed to offer some relief? Relief or shade or something like that. He couldn't remember anymore. It was so hard to think of anything besides the oppressive blackness and the red blisters which rearranged themselves over his skin from hour to hour, day to day, year to year.

Had he been there for years? It felt like it had been decades or something like that. He couldn't remember anymore. It was so hard to think of anything besides his brain melting in his skull and then pressing inside his head as the last bit of liquid in him tried to evaporate and—

_Sam_, wasn't Sam something good? Brother and help and safe or something like that. It was hard to remember the specifics, but he knew, he _knew_ when he didn't know anything else that Sam was safe, that Sam was a small piece of relief to hold on to, to keep him sane in the tight heat and bloating pain. Because Sam was safe, no matter what happened. Dean was in Hell and that meant Sam couldn't be. That had been the deal.

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All he knew was that he would have been more comfortable in the Gobi desert, temperature fluctuations be damned, than he was hanging in any iron-chained web in the Pit.

He was strung up, meat hooks through his muscles and blood trickling sluggishly across the heavy iron links, and he wasn't sure if his screams for Sam even reached anyone's ears but it helped him remember that it was _good_ that he was down here, trapped like a fly waiting for a spider. It was better this way, far better, because here he had some semblance of freedom. Here he could feel the baked air wafting up the tattered shreds of his shirt, drying the blood into a congealed mess over his skin. Here he could hang and not have his back pressed to hot metal. Here he was free from the rack, free from being strapped down so completely that his every movement was reduced to trembles and spasms under Alastair's tiny blade.

Alastair always used the littlest tools. Said they hurt the most.

Alastair. The spider in this twisted metaphor Dean was surviving through. He didn't have a choice, really. Every time he thought he died, Alastair brought him back.

One thing Alastair didn't know, though, was that his cruelest weapon, the tiny words he used to cut open Dean's soul (he thought), was actually Dean's greatest comfort.

"Where's your brother now, Dean?" Alastair would always lean close and smile. "Where's your precious Sammy? You left him. You're alone, Dean, and I have you all to myself."

Every word was punctuated with some minute motion from Alastair's scalpel. Dean thought obscenely that the demon was acting like a child learning to paint. Learning to paint with such vivid colors, such bright red and such thick burgundy.

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All he knew was that Hell was at least creative with its heat.

It felt like his skin was being scalded from his bones, but Dean knew that really he was cold, so cold that his fingers and toes had already turned black and the rest of his body felt like it was on fire.

And he knew that he was stupid. So stupid to have blurted out his one comfort in this nightmare.

"'M glad Sam's not here," he'd gotten out between gasps. Alastair had even stopped with the scalpel to let him get out a full sentence. "Means he's safe. Mean's he's not down here with me." Alastair's smile hadn't budged, only grown more defined. Dean wanted to scrape that smile off the demon's face. "I'm g-glad Sam's not here."

So stupid.

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All he knew was that he was a coal surrounded by flames.

The metal underneath his back was glowing with heat, the sound of sizzling flesh reminding him perversely of summertime barbecues with Sam and Dad. Then the memory was ripped away as Alastair leaned into his face, tracing along Dean's clenched jaw with a razor.

"You've been laying there for days. You'd think you'd be ready to get up, walk around, stretch your legs a bit."

Dean did his best to roll his eyes and thought maybe he succeeded—or maybe they rolled because of the pain licking away at his spine, burning through layers of raw skin to ignite his bones.

"Now, Dean, you know what always happens around this time. We've been riding this merry-go-round for months now. Or years, depending on how you look at it. I've been very patient, but I think I deserve an answer."

Dean managed to pull together enough spit to coat his tongue. Maybe enough to form the words, but his singed skin felt tight around his mouth and he knew his lips were peeling and oozing blood from the cuts. Still, he'd take what defiance he could get. "Make a m're tempting offer. Stripp'rs maybe."

Alastair smiled, drawing back a little. "Too many people think Hell's about the good stuff. They think things like brothels will exist in Hell because they're not allowed Upstairs." Alastair poked at the open wound in Dean's side, ignoring Dean's ragged gasp. "They're wrong," he sing-songed, running his finger along Dean's hairline. "I have something I think you'll like to see, though."

And suddenly Dean was off the rack. Standing, wounds healed, skin cool to the touch. He ran his palms down his sides and marveled. It was amazing how easily a person could move when his entrails weren't in a pool on the floor. He had a brief moment to revel in the feeling of _not pain_ before the ball of fear settled in his stomach. There was a catch. There was always a catch.

"What are you doing to me?"

Alastair cocked his head as though confused. "Nothing." He reached forward slowly and closed Dean's fingers around the handle of his scalpel. "You're going to need that."

Dean turned around, trying to get his bearings, trying to see the trick in the plan—things were too good, there was no pain, he was _off the rack_ and he hadn't asked to be. His eyes swept the darkness and suddenly he saw that the place where he had just been strapped was occupied.

Sam was stretched out on the metal frame.

The scalpel clattered to the ground as Dean ran forward, cradling Sam's face in his palms, almost afraid to touch. "Those sons of— Did they hurt you? Where does it hurt, Sam?" Sam's muscles were taut, straining against the bonds, his mouth and chin obscenely obscured by a wide leather strap, but there was no blood, no shredded flesh, no visible wounds that Dean could see. Just Sam's eyes, flared with panic and edged with the smallest ring of hazel. "Hold on, Sam. Just hang tight, I'm gonna get you out of here. You're not supposed— Alastair! Get him off of this you evil son of a—"

Alastair chuckled. "Tut tut, Dean. Think of this as a field trip, something new for you to experience, something to learn from." Suddenly Dean felt his fingers curled around the scalpel again. He lifted the tiny blade to his face without willing to, seeing his astonished expression reflected on the metal.

"What are you doing?" His voice was breathless, more worried than he would have liked, more worried than he would have wanted Sam to know. Sam's breathing picked up.

"Not me, Dean. _You_." Alastair's face had the look of delight which Dean had long since learned to fear.

Dean tried to drop the scalpel but his fingers wouldn't budge, firm on the handle, whole in appearance. Dean had almost forgotten what whole fingers looked like, fingers with skin covering the muscle, bones and nails in their proper places. Then his arm moved smoothly forward, the metal gleaming red against Sam's skin, and Dean's confused panic was heard in Sam's muffled cry. It seemed the only thing Dean could control was his mouth.

"No, no, _stop!_ Stop it, not Sam! Not him, let me go, put me on the rack!" His head swiveled to Alastair, everything below his neck beyond his control. "Put me back on there! I didn't ask to get off, I told you no! I've always told you no!"

His hand paused in its bloody trail just before it reached Sam's neck and Dean gulped in air like Sam was trying to do, hindered by the leather strap and the sobs of fear and pain choking his throat.

"Yes, I know." Alastair raised his eyebrows. "But you are on the rack, Dean."

"What?"

"You're not off. You're still there, stretched like a spider. And Sam's there too. And you—" Alastair looked at Dean's hand. A deft twist of Dean's fingers and the scalpel embedded itself in Sam's shoulder, digging through until the tip of the blade poked through the other side. Sam's screams were barely muffled by the gag, his eyes staring straight up in agony and streaming tears. For once Dean was speechless with horror. "You, Dean Winchester, are going to carve your brother up like a Christmas turkey."

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All he knew was that he couldn't stay sane and live through a day like the last one.

"I'm sorry, Sam. Sorry, so sorry. I'd stop if I could, Sammy. I don't have a choice. Sammy, look at me, I'm sorry."

Sam's eyes were bloodshot, wide and streaming tears before Dean ever lifted the blade. Dean felt like his own eyes would look the same if there were any liquid left which Hell hadn't already sucked from him. Like it had taken his soul. Like it was taking his sanity. Like it was taking Sam.

"You don't _have_ to do it, you know."

Alastair's voice was bored. Dean guessed that the demon was tired of controlling Dean's hands, ready to take over the action, to feel Sam's blood on his own hands instead of seeing it coat Dean's. But for Dean to torture other souls, _purposefully_, with his own mind and control behind the actions. That was worse, Sam had to understand that was worse, than being forced to torture his own brother. They fought to protect, it was the Winchester way. Sam would know. Sam would know, right?

Dean tried to ignore the way his brother pleaded through the leather strap and the way his own voice pleaded at someone, anyone, to stop what he was doing.

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All he knew was that Hell hath no fury like a brother being forced to torture his brother.

If Alastair pushed him today, the third day consisting of a thousand hours, then something was going to break.

But Alastair didn't push him.

Today, Sam was there, splayed out and pinned, dead to everything but the pain Dean gave him at the point of the scalpel, and Alastair was watching nearby, just like normal.

But today Dean's hand did not move on its own.

"I think you've had enough practice, don't you, Dean?" Alastair was smug. "I think you're ready to handle Sam on your own now."

Dean's shocked eyes did not betray the vehemence with which he was cursing in his head. He would have been cursing aloud but his mouth was hanging open and he thought maybe his heart had stopped.

"You can't make me." His voice was ragged.

Alastair chuckled. "I think we both know I can. But I'm not going to. Here's the deal, Dean: carve up Sam or start carving other souls. This time, though, you don't need a roadmap. You know where we usually start." Alastair gently pressed his fingers to Dean's lowest rib and Dean wished he could endure touch now without automatically flinching.

"I'm not doing it."

"Alright then. We're flexible here in Hell."

Sam was off the rack, curled in a trembling heap near Dean's feet. A little girl, couldn't have been more than ten, was strapped on the frame which overpowered her small stature. Her plaintive cries were for her mother.

"Her name is Candace." Alastair's voice held a world of mockery. "If you wanted to know."

Dean turned and wretched.

"Well, go ahead, Dean. We're all waiting."

Sam was begging in a broken monotone, his voice just topping a whisper. Dean reached down and Sam clung to him.

"Why, Dean? What did I do?" Sam's face crumpled with tears and his fingers pulled at Dean's shirt like he was afraid Dean would rip away and leave him.

"Mommy!"

"Time to make your choice, Dean. It's impolite to keep the lady waiting."

"Dean, please… Whatever I did, I didn't mean it. Please, don't—not like Dad, Dean. Please."

"Mommy? Mommy!"

"Hurry up now, Dean."

"Dean, don't hurt me. Please don't. I won't do anything wrong. I won't, I won't. I promise, I'll—just don't hurt me. No more. Please, no more."

"Dean!"

He was back on the rack, flayed skin and seared muscle and those confining leather straps which made it hard to even breathe. _No more. _He strained.

And something snapped.

"I'll do it." His voice rasped out of his swollen throat, but it didn't tremble, was overlaid with the iron resolve he'd been grasping for ever since he was thrown into Hell. There was no doubt about this. Not anymore.

He wasn't sure what was broken in him. Something—Hell had broken something. But this time it wasn't sinew or bones. He was sure of that. His drive as a hunter to protect the innocent? His defiance of Alastair? The moral compass Sam had tried so hard to cultivate in him?

The straps were released. Alastair stepped back, waiting. Dean got off the rack and picked up the scalpel and was thankful.

The little girl looked nothing like Sam.

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All he knew was that the name Dean Winchester didn't fit anymore.

All he knew was that it wasn't Sam.


End file.
